It was a cold winter evening in Northampton, New York. A pale gold horizon outlined the cloudy sky as the dull light of the december sun lowered into the verdant landscape, masked in a horror-esque fog that stretched from farmland to shining sea.
The remote island town had experienced a legendary snow storm just a week before WinterFest parade festivities officially began, but the ever-green grass was still mottled with dazzling white; it's vast lakes arrested by delicate sheets of ice and snow. Not one soul would attend the week long event, whether there were humans left to organize the activities or not out of fear of abduction. Aliens from other dimensions clearly didn't intend to shoulder the world's traditions after their invasion of earth. It was understandable, given the race before them shared the likeliness of apes and the creative talent of prepubescent children. Pretty ironic, considering Kraang were so far uncreative wads of bubblegum circling the drain of extinction.
If given the chance, Michelangelo would drive the party wagon through fulton county to hunt down the infamous papier mache troves he imagined was buried deep in the basement of Northampton city hall - along with the top secret hideout of Elvis Presley and the inventor of turducken. After several celebrity and me selfies taken via April's disposable camera, Michelangelo would construct a float of himself atop an intricately detailed replica of godzilla that, instead of fire, would vomit Borriello's secret pizza sauce. Then he would spend the rest of the night learning all Presley and Ducken's secrets before heading home a new and improved turtle.
But alas, his dreams seemed for naught. He had a responsibility to his family to stay at the farmhouse and at the side of his recovering older brother and leader, Leonardo.
Ever since Dr. Donatello released Leonardo from his get-well prison cell for good behavior, he's been insisting on perfecting his ninjutsu. Today, the day of miracles, he managed to convince Don to allow him a round of turtle hunt. And if the fact that he had said yes despite the Kraang threat being at an all time high wasn't surprising enough, Donatello agreed to sit this one out. Michelangelo was convinced it was a ploy to get his brothers out of the house, so he and April would have the place to themselves for the evening. April had complained of a sore throat that morning, and a strong chill to boot, and it had been a lot better playing doctor Don to his sweet chinchilla, than nursing his flesh and blood back to health. The only condition was that Mike be Leo's caretaker for the rest of the day—until Raphael relieved him, of course.
It wasn't anything to complain about; Mike loved hanging out with his big brothers. If pestering your siblings was an olympic sport he would have a gold medal for driving them up the wall. Leo was one of those rare opportunities to get bonding time with that doubt had convinced them they'd never get 3 months ago, so he was thankful to get the opportunity. Unfortunately, the battle with the Shredder had changed Leo into that of a cornered, over-emotional leader—and for a guy that took pride in becoming the fort knox of emotion, that was one hell of an accomplishment.
"You sure you don't need help?" Michelangelo asks, arms and legs dangling off an old oak tree's broad limb. "It's kind of my job, y'know."
"Are you getting paid to watch me?" Leonardo huffs, then continues his thorny love affair with the low hanging branches of an oak tree across the way. Leo's been at this for a while now - picking and choosing perfectly good climbing trees like contestants auditioning for interspecies relationships, only to deem the trunks impossible to mount. Then he moves on to the next tree and so on, etcetera.
"No."
"Then it isn't your job."
"Do you get paid to be leader?" Mike sits up and falls into a squat, armpits over knee and palms flat over the curve of the bough.
"Being leader is not my job, Mikey," Leo looks at Mike for the first time in an hour. His bad leg edging up the jagged pine trunk in a sexy, fortuitous manner that Mikey finds endlessly hilarious. "It's my duty to lead our family to victory."
"Oh…" Mike cringes as Leo lowers his leg to the snow covered ground, curled toes hovering. His whole body tenses briefly before he moves on to the next tree. "Well, it's my duty as a bro to help you."
Michelangelo grapples to the branchless side of the tree and slides down from his perch like a firehouse pole—immediately regretting his decision when he reaches the bottom with angry red rashes for hands. "Ow."
"I don't need your help." Leonardo stares at his next victim for a moment, sizing her up and stretching his leg out like it's going to help.
"Aw, too bad, bro. You're getting it anyway." Plucking bits of bark from his deformed digits, Mikey sauntered over to Leonardo with a playful smirk. "No offence, but she's out of your league. I think you'd be happier with a nice bush, or a hole. Or maybe a creepy shed."
"What are you saying?" Leo said, face turning a pale shade of pink.
"Nothing. It's just that Raph'll think you climbed a tree cuz, duh, there are trees everywhere. Too obvious, right?" He pauses as if Leo would respond with a plan of action, a jest maybe. When he doesn't, Mike's wide, goofy smile begins to fade. "You can sit down in a bush and rest your-"
"Don't."
"Look!" Mike points. Leonardo whirls around to look at a bush that Mikey has eagerly brought to his attention. It's squat, packed with fallen pine needles and weighed down by a pound of snow. It's just big enough to house a five-foot mutant and one gigantic turtle shell.
"Ain't she a beaut', that one." Hands on his hips, Mike sways to a silent rhythm and grinds his heel into the roots. "Go on, Lady, hop in and take 'her fer a spin."
"Laddie." Leo corrects him, then he's hobbling forward towards the saggy brier with all the fierceness and speed of a recovering amputee. "I'm only doing this because Raph will be here any second, and there aren't any good climbing trees here."
"Yeah, man. No good trees." Mikey snickers and settles his rump on the snowfall beside the sad sack of pine needles. With the stub nail of his mutated thumb, he de-thorns the network of splinters that have taken root in his phalanges.
In the meantime, Leonardo gets down on his hands and knees and scuttlebugs his way into the rope-like undergrowth of the bush, his upper half concealed among its virile sprouts. Mikey resists the urge to snap a pic of Leo's tail end - instead pretending as if the assless view isn't a golden opportunity to embarrass his older brother, but an unfortunate situation for them both.
Thankfully something cute and cuddly scurries into sight a few feet away just as Mikey's resolve wears thin. Producing the piss yellow disposable camera from his belt, Mike holds the ancient kodak just so that the reflective rectangular hole is right where his pupil should be. The new subject of his secret facebook page is a Cardinal he describes as "a bird made of lava," to Leonardo, whom makes no effort to see it for himself before making skeptic guesses on the story.
"Birds can't be made of lava." He said, wiggling his flat fanny further into the boughs of narnia.
"Explain how I'm looking at one then?" Mike retorts, snorting.
That being said, Michelangelo carefully positions the shot as if he can see straight through the dusty lense and plastic case to the majestic woodland bird ready for its close up. He can't see spit, but a professional photographer is what started as an ameteur instagramer, taking pictures of not what they see with their eyes, but what they see in their future.
When he is confident that everything is aligned and perfect, he takes the shot and is blinded instantly by the fiery white light of the future April calls "The Flash." Startled, as always, Mikey reels backward into the shrub, knocking the now very surprised turtle in blue from its buds.
Alarmed and quite frankly wounded by the betrayal, he throws the antique kodak into the wild, startling the haughty winter bird into flight. Now visually impaired and a bit panicky, he swings his arms out and gropes the frigid evening air for his soon-to-be seeing eye turtle, when one deafening clap has his arms tucked to his sides. As Leo's name rolls off the tip of his tongue, something hard and hollow hits the top of his head and knocks him to the ground.
"We're under attack!" Mike yells, hands over his head. The sound of metal tumbling over metal is right next to him, drowning out the frantic yelling of his older brother whose words he can't quite make out. For a moment, he considers the possibility of their attackers being snobby lava colored birds dropping torpedo shells overhead. There evil monologue spoken in the ancient language of birdwa. Of course, it does occur to him that it could be something else entirely, something serious. But for now the camera shy cardinal is the number one suspect.
"Leo!" He calls, but Leo doesn't answer. The thunderous clanging of empty metal shells comes to an abrupt end so sudden he wonders for a second if he had imagined it. Too much pizza, he thinks. But he knows for sure he heard Leo calling his name as it was happening. Now not even the familiar rustling of leaves and twine could be heard in the bush beside him.
"Leo?" Again, nothing. Mikey crawls on his hands and knees towards the place he'd last seen Leonardo wriggling through the undergrowth. On the way he hits something hard with the lip of his kneepad and receives a roar of hollow metal. The debris, he thinks, a torpedo one kick away from detonating. He reels back to escape it, his arms shielding him from the blast that would surely be the end of all life in the glade. But nothing as monumental happens. He has either died instantly on what would be ground zero or the bomb was part of a conceited bird's bluff. Then the razor-edged bush gives beneath his shell.
Gasping, he spreads eagle and reaches for invisible handholds - but it's too late, the shrub has flattened completely under his weight and anything living inside. Accepting fate's hand, Mike allows his destructive derriere to wreak havoc on the peaceful woodland brier. He knows for certain know that Leo has moved on, as he doesn't hit anything hard or shell-like on the way down. But where would he go?
Something snaps. Another empty shell bounces off the snow covered ground, splashing his sensitive tootsies with gelid mush. As he's about to stand a vine of some sort falls across his shoulders and whips the back of his right hand. "Yowch!" He screeches, and grabs the aggressive vine by the face. Though it don't feel like no vine in his hands.
He rubs his eyes vigorously to dispel the spots of white decorating his cornea. When he looks again the barbed vine has transformed into a threadbare rope, held together with patches of hot glue and rows of knotted silly string
Mikey's imagination soars with curiosity just at the look of it. Tempting fate, he gives the mysterious rope a whole-hearted tug. It snags, pulling downward in his grip towards the bed of creepers growing at the treeline. He gives it a hard yank to the right and holds it there, but still nothing gives. Letting the rope slacken in his grasp, Mike follows it's fraying, fuzzy ends to the other side of the bush. The brushland thickens around the border and plays limbo with the approaching line acting as Mikey's guide, but he doesn't mind. It ends at plot of wilting dandelions that have turned a faded yellow, and some vicious looking plants with razors blades for leaves. He brushes the creepers and tails from his path to reveal a trampled bed of wild flowers and a puddle of something dark red.
His voice dissolves completely at the back of his throat to see the figure lying amongst the wilting dandelions. Face down in the tall shoots of grassland slides, hands reaching for sheathed katana, Leonardo makes no indication of his brother's presence despite Mikey's anxiety induced gagging.
Michelangelo sinks to his knees at Leo's side and places the flat of his hand against his brother's shell. The scutes rise and fall with every even breath, coming short on occasion, and he swears by crognard's flowing blond locks that all the breath in his own lungs leaves him in that moment. Mike's eyes return to follow the synthetic trail to Leo's curling toes by Bush's end. That's when he sees it.
Where the flesh of Leo's left leg should be are the razor sharp fangs of a metal jaw; his toes uncoiled springs and copper spotted chains. Deep puncture wounds riddle Leo's emerald flesh like swiss cheese and strings of balding asparagus. Around a single snow caked steel tooth are the severed strands of a bowline knot. The rest of the mysterious rope lays trapped under Leonardo's knees.
He moves swiftly. His bloodied hands act as a dam obstructing the slow building blood flow, his body seemingly unable to do much else in a state of panic. Leo's body is clean, barely avoiding the hot sticky mess on a slope under the cover of trees. It must have been what shielded Leo from the attack, he thinks.
Suddenly remembering the debris of battle from his earlier adventures, Mikey looks behind him to see not a battle field decorated with empty bombshells. but a pile of pots and pans that have landed a few feet from where he once sat. Something like a mini pitchfork slips off the copper varnishing of a griddle leaning against a flaky sauce pot riddled with holes like gunshot wounds and a dent the size of his knee.
He's certainly no Sherlock Holmes, but he was a fairly good John Watson when he wanted to be. And if there was one quality to Watson Mikey admired the most it was his ability to know danger when he sees it.
"Hunters." He whispers.
As if to answer the sound of gunfire fills the open space. Footsteps can be heard then - the sound of rubber soles chewing snow is nearly unmistakable, even for a mutant that doesn't wear shoes.
That throws him from his stupor, and next thing he knows he's fiddling with the dog trigger of an extremely dangerous device attached to his brother's leg. It isn't too long after that he realizes the crude mechanisms make as much sense to him as a foreign language. If Donnie were here he wouldn't have gone from playing blind mice with a stupid camera to 7 minutes in heaven with a thorn bush. He would have freed Leo and been out here before the bombs even dropped. If Raph were here…
Without hesitation, Mikey slides his arms under his brother's unmoving form and rolls him onto his shell. He does something similar to de-pretzelify Leo's spindly legs, mindful of the injury, and then he's bending down and hoisting Leo's lower body over the flat of his broad shoulder. Leo's arms and legs just barely graze the ground as Mikey beats a hasty retreat into the woods.
If he were Raphael, he would stay and fight the hunters to the death if it meant Leo would survive another minute. But he knew that a tactical retreat was a call Leo would make, and unlike his two other brothers, Leo was here. As far as Mikey was concerned he was still calling the shots.
Soon the army of footsteps fade into the distance. But even as the hunters try-and-fail to close the gap, Mike can still hear their surprised shouts loud and clear. One of them screams something about aliens in Northampton with a thick southern accent. Another crows something escaped circus freaks living off their land and not playing fair game. Interesting debates on one or the other would no doubt come up later that evening. But for the moment he doesn't care, and only focuses on what's happening now.
From behind a group of bullets set into the trees overhead. Pop pop pop, the slugs whistle and whizz through the bushes and branches above and below. Mike swerves to avoid the shots, taking shelter in an oak's burly offshoot until the huntsman cease fire. For a moment it feels like the shooting will never end, but like any gunmen in this world they run out of bullets to fire. He doesn't wait for the clear signal simply because if you can dodge a laser you can dodge lead, and that was exactly what he intended to do.
When the hunters attempted another round of catch the caught-up, Michelangelo ditched the heat and flowed through the bustling nexus of trees, feet light and fast-moving. Not once did he look over his shoulder.
The chill lashes his body like tongues of ice and fills his ear canals with aggressive whispers that drone on faster and faster. It's getting colder by the minute, the sun barely providing enough light to see by. He's hoping the cold will help clot the lesions on Leo's calf, scab the blood, but he's also hoping against hope that it won't be the reason he loses his toes.
Michelangelo doesn't mind the cold. In fact, he is purposefully ignoring the trouble Jack Frost went through putting the magic of frostbite into the cold season that he associates the most with pegging out. The ordeal has left him numb to the rapidly dropping temperature, focusing more on the narrow pathways spun between the pine than the delicate, freshly fallen snowflakes.
Just then, Mikey's wide roving eyes catch a glimpse of blood trailing off in the wind like red satin ribbons dancing in the drift. He cranes his neck and watches the three scarlet streams merge into one to create elegant, thick lines in the ivory snow like a morbid Pollock painting in progress, and marvels the patterns weaving through the creepers popping out between his toes.
Red on white, a path the reapers sought to follow.
He claps a hand on Leonardo's wound, fully aware that the hunters could be tracking it. Peering over his shoulder he sees a thick trail of blood dividing the mile-long footpath, sometimes curving where he zigzagged the enemies bullets. Any ametuer woodsman with two eyes could see it's elaborate brushstrokes would lead them straight to a huntsman paradise.
Michelangelo refocuses his attention on the path. Eyes ahead, he suddenly veers off his previous tracks and somehow, by memory alone, does he find the worn down shed that was once the Creep's haunted headquarters. It's better than nothing, and he definitely can't go home with huntsmen on his tail.
Crashing through the ribbons of rot wood that serves as the front door, Mike stammers onto the muddy lot of ground that makes up the shed's first and only floor. Studying the partially demolished interior, the peeling paneled walls and the blown out window from where the Creep made his surprise entrance Mike deems the creepy hideout an adequate winter getaway and settles Leo in the shadows occupying the far corner.
Here he begins the act of removing the glorified death trap from Leo's calf. He vaguely remembers something about severed arteries or veins being blocked by offending objects - Though he hardly does any forward planning as it were and quickly brushed such thoughts aside. Grabbing the front panel and pressing the heel of his foot against the dog trigger, Mike pries the two metal panels apart. It concerns him that Leo doesn't make any effort to stop the procedure. Not even to groan in pain or a release a scream of agony. He's so eerily like he was in the tub then. Just completely dead to the world.
Once the two pieces release the limb blood is quick to follow it, including bits of muscle tissue and flesh. Mikey slowly slides the bear trap out and away from the leg before carefully removing his own limbs. Once he's sure it's safe to let it go he springs back, arms raised high above his head. The bear trap snaps shut on nothing, jumps into the air, and lands on the ground with a pitiful thud.
Without hesitation Michelangelo unwraps the bandages wound around his broad wrists and applies it to the gaping, gushing injury. He makes a rushed job of it, but a bad job is better than no work done. Mike quickly wraps them around and around, sometimes taking more bandages from other parts of his body and adding layers to the bloodier parts of Leo's leg. The precious liquid life running through his brother's veins seeps through the sheets of bandages only seconds after they were applied. He'll need more if he's going to stop the blood.
Luckily for Leo, there is. Ignoring the wet edges, Mikey takes the bandages from Leo's clean-ish ankle and uses it to dress the wound a bit further. The bandages on his wrists go next, and in time the wound has been thoroughly casted in Ace. With the help of his loyal tootsies he ties it off with a crappy bow-knot and props the bad ankle between his knees.
He knows that he'll have to go out and cover his tracks, but he also knows there'd be no reason to at this point, considering the hunters would notice the crop circles easier than they would blood. He could run in another direction, make tracks leading away just to throw them off. But again, even if they did buy it, they'd investigate the shed expecting an abandoned shelter for mutants or a secret base of operations, and find Leo lying there without protection. That's the only part he doesn't know about...What they'll do to them if they're caught.
"Leo?" Mike whispers. "Come back, dude. I need you to wake up for me."
Leo doesn't move an inch. Beside them the shattered barn doors let in the fresh snowfall. The sun— honoring the restraining order—admires the rising moon at a respectable distance. For a moment the warm wintertime light lingers in the silent valley like a gold encrusted veil. Then, almost without warning, the shack is plunged into a darkness so thick that not even his excellent reptilian night-vision can penetrate. The hunters could have gone home by now, he thinks, spreading tall tales of otherworldly creatures stalking the 'hampton woods after midnight. Was it possible that the hunters would seek them out after tonight? He feared the possibility of hunters showing up at the farmhouse with stories of greenfolk and enemy spies. With no authority keeping the peace—not to mention the fact they lived miles from civilization—they'd suffer no repercussion. In no time at all they'd have what they wanted and do with it what they pleased. He could only hope that his other brothers were safe, and that April had been practicing her Jedi mind powers for such an occasion.
Guilt settles in his stomach like a block of curdled milk, his shoulders slumping into the ranger. None of this would have happened if he wasn't goofing off. Sure, he could argue that he there was no way he could've have known about the bear trap lying in wait by the bush that he picked out for Leonardo. And yeah, maybe he had felt it was safe enough to let his guard down and enjoy the beauty of nature. But it all came down to him not being careful. He didn't scout the area for danger, nor check the snow for suspicious tracks. It was he that fell into the bush and knocked Leo from its branches, so surely it was he that was responsible.
"I'm sorry Leo, this is all my fault. Raph was right, all I do is screw things up for you guys."
The storm rolls and barrels into his side. He moves around to protect Leo from the brunt of the gust, and settles into the mighty roars of the tempest, his head bowed in her presence.
"It's not your fault."
The sudden answer catches Mikey off-guard, and for just a moment he thinks the hunters have tracked them to the shed and barged in uninvited. The voice is one he isn't entirely familiar with, but one he knows all the same.
"Oh, thank cats, man. I thought you were dead." He shouted.
"It feels like I'm dead." Leo said, sounding as if he were reprising the urge to cough. Mike can't make out his face very well in the darkness, but he's ninety-nine percent sure it's the exact same face he makes after stubbing a toe. "Where are we?"
"Creep's crib." Said Mikey. "Before you say anything, I couldn't go home because of the hunters, and you were seriously bleeding out back there and I really needed to find a place to lie low 'cause you were getting blood all over everything and the dudes back there could track it and I remembered Creep's shed was like, really really close-by, and I thought 'Hey! That's a shady place to hide.' So I went inside and bandaged up your leg." Mikey gestures to the foot cradled between his knees. "And now we're both naked...er."
Pause. "You want to try that again, from the top this time?"
"I can do that." He said, a toothy grin splitting his freckled face into halves. He goes through a hurried explanation of events leading them up to now and all the anxieties he endured as it transpired. With his tendency to go off track he slipped into a detailed story of their future as the hunters captives and cleaning maids, but Leo was quick to shut it down.
He was quiet as he listened to the story, thinking maybe. Maybe always thinking. Maybe not listening, though always prepared to correct Mikey's grammatical errors.
The few minutes that passed then were heavy. Questions without answers lingered like rashes yet to be scratched by the nails of answer, and Leo's hopeful outlook faded away like the warmth of the sun. It went silent when he finally reached the end of his tale, save the winter storm's muffled ramblings brewing from beyond the walls.
Mike could hear the wind pick up outside and loosen the plywood boards nailed to the outside of the shed like bandaids. The barn doors knocked against their paint stripped frames, rattling the whole building on its virtually non-existent foundation and knocking the serrated saws, screwdrivers and hammers from their racks. A breeze slips through the narrow gaps created by the Creep's leafy daggers and stirred up the carpet of snow covering the left side of the shed. The reanimated snowflakes then tornado under two poorly constructed skylights and spread out until every nook and cranny was graced by her divine touch, top to bottom.
Galaxies worth of frozen rain shower descended upon the two shivering mutant turtles huddled in the far corner, and it feels as though it dropped one-hundred-thousand degrees before the wind finally dies down to a gentlewhispering.
"Whoa, that was intense. Bet the farmhouse is getting hammered right now." Mikey crows and stares into the darkness engulfing his brother's form. A grunt of discomfort escapes the void where Leo's head once was. "I'm having a seriously hard time figuring out if you're still alive."
"Heh, yeah. Sorry, still kicking." Leo said, sounding slightly winded from all the sitting he's been doing.
"Poor choice of words, Dude."
Leo laughs. "Shell. That bad, huh?"
"That bad."
Another gust of wind pounds the three-walled hovel, pelting them with gravel. Mikey crosses his fingers on both hands, praying the growing storm has sent the hunters packing for shelter. Surely their tracks have been covered to some extent by now.
"You know what's funny?" Leo says. "The first day I take my new leg for a run, I ruin the other one. I'll be back on the crutch the same day I get off it." He laughed like a cynical drunkard, stiff and inconsolable. Broken. It made Mikey uncomfortable. "Once bitten, never shy, I guess."
"Don't be that way, Leo, it isn't that bad. This one will heal up in a few days - 2 weeks tops."
"If you're going to lie to me, at least make it a good one." He snorts. "You sound like Don."
"Don is always right."
"Was he right when he discharged me from rehabilitation? Was he right by staying behind to flirt with April instead of making sure the cripple didn't chip a nail? I knew that if I used April against him he would let me train with you, so I guess that makes me right." Leo struggles into a sitting position. Mikey offers him a hand up, which he gratefully takes without fuss. "I can't even climb a tree with this thing."
"You were trying to climb them?" Mikey's eyes widen with surprise. "I thought you were practicing your lap dancing."
"Shut up." Leo drives a floppy fist into Mikey's inner elbow, probably expecting it to be his shoulder.
"If I'm Donnie, then you're Raph."
"Wow. That hurts my feelings."
"I'm serious, bro!" Mikey giggles and nudges Leo's uninjured leg with the knuckles of his right hand. "Why are you so angry all the time, anyway? I mean, things could be worse, and April's trying really hard to make you comfortable, but you get all mopey. It sucks. She's afraid you hate being here."
"Does she, really?"
"Yeah, Man. She's like super host up in this place, but you gotta be all-"
"-Overbearing?"
"Nah, not that." Mikey taps his chin as he thinks of the right words to say, then snaps his fingers.. "Depressed!"
"I like to think I have a good reason for that."
"It was tough on everyone." Mikey lets those words linger while he checks the tightly wound ace bandages around Leo's leg by gently moving his fingers up and down the cast. It's cold as ice, firmly frozen like early onset rigor mortis, but he greatly prefers it over the hot sticky mess it once was. Besides a few wet patches it's almost completely dry. "Why do you think Don is always hounding you to take your medicine?" Mikey continues. "Or why Raph is extra nice and creepy and trying to take you out for walkies?"
"I don't know. Guilt? Pity?"
"Yep!" Mike exclaims. At the honest reply Leo slumps against the wall, sighing. Mike imagines Leo's downcast eyes and puckered bottom lip perfectly. It's so vivid in his mind's eye that he actually feels bad for it. "It's more than just that. They want you to be happy. We all want it, but it's like you don't. Like in some messed up way you want to suffer."
"I would deserve it." Said Leo. "If I had defeated the Shredder in that construction site then he wouldn't have fought Master Splinter in the tunnels and he wouldn't be…- Splinter would be with us, where he should be, not banged up and in a ditch somewhere one-hundred miles away. But I was weak." He scoffed. "I barely posed a threat against him."
"You're alive." Said Mike. "You kicked butt and lived to tell the story."
"So?"
"Psh, 'so?' You best joking." Mikey coughs into a fisted hand and straightens as much as Leo's balanced knee would allow before gathering the few imaginary strands of fur sprouting from his hairless chin with one hand. "Few have ever faced the Shredder and survived."
"That...wasn't bad. Have you been practicing?"
"Shell yeah. I'm one with the universe now."
"Right. I gotta ask, out of curiosity...Where were you after we left the city?"
"Uh…"
"Over here! I swear I heard someone." There it was. The one thing Michelangelo had been waiting for, and it couldn't have come at a better time. A little closer than he would've liked, but he won't look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when it is out to bite him.
Mike leans halfway over Leonardo's form, hiding him from view of the shanty's shattered wall. Thankfully, he doesn't protest, though he doesn't have much of a choice in the matter.
"But I'm tired!" Whines another faceless voice. "I wanna go home."
"We're not going home without that trap." The footsteps close in on the shed. Michelangelo recognizes the voice from earlier, back when he was being chased through the trees by angry hunters with guns. The same man preaching about circus show freaks was just outside the door, and Mike couldn't help but fear the worst was yet to come. "'Sides, you were suppose to become a man today. If it weren't for that stupid alien taking our crap, then you would've killed something by now."
Slowly removing Leonardo's foot from atop his knees, Michelangelo drew his nunchucks from their leather holsters and pivoted towards the open doorway just as the barrel of a browning t-bolt crossed the threshold, then the bill of a red Yankee's baseball cap and a pregnant belly bursting forth a fur-lined jacket.
"There's nothing to kill anymore." The whiny voice replies. "And Mom said-"
"-Forget what your mom said. I'm your dad, why can't you listen to me for once? Jesus."
The man's massive head emerges from the open doorway. The moonlight cuts him off below the neck, making his facial features difficult for Mikey to make through the darkness. It's blurred beyond recognition to the point of looking fuzzy, like fur, but not the hairiest he's ever seen. A shady figure at least a foot shorter than Mike steps in behind the furry faced hunter, a small rabbit hunting rifle slung over his right shoulder and a matching ensemble, right down to the boots.
Their foggy outlines move about the dainty shed, oblivious to the mutants hiding in the far corner. Bob, as Mikey will call him, notices the steel jaw laying in the center of the shack and immediately makes his way towards it. Kneeling down, he retrieves the metal contraption and slings the rusted chain across his muscular forearm. Moonlight streaming in from the caved in ceiling reveals the hunter's face some. He appears to be covered in untamed nut-brown facial hair - A mustache beard combo with complimentary sideburns and two thick eyebrows a few hairs away from being united.
Michelangelo scans the rays of moonlight for a child's tear stained face. Or, maybe, the killer eyes of Bob's partner in crime. But the son hadn't followed.
Mikey's bright blue eyes are owlish when he and the huntsman's armed son make eye contact. The kid's shoulders stiffen—tiny hands gripping the fur-lined collar of his coat as if life depended on it. Michelangelo shrinks into the darkness until all except for the whites of his eyes disappear, but the child's hazel stare searches the darkness for him still.
"Damn." Bob cursed. "Do you see the blood on this thing? Musta really tore into that sucker."
The son doesn't react, doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Thankfully his father fails to notice. Ambling towards the boy, Bob nudges his stiff limbed son with the butt of his t-bolt rifle. "Hey?" He says. "Luke? Hey, Lucas." Nudge. "Papa bear to baby bear, ready for evac, over."
The boy, Lucas, turns his head slowly in his father's direction, eyes brimming with tears of unadulterated terror. To Mike's absolute horror, Luke's right arm falls, lifts a finger straight in their direction, and utters the three words he prayed he wouldn't hear; "It's watching me."
And just like that, the Alien hating, freakshow gunner with the face between a half-shaven sasquatch and a Norse seafarer, lowered his weather-worn browning rifle at the shadows concealing the two mutants. Mike set into motion and stood between the blackened end of the long gun and his injured older brother, whirling nunchucks disturbing the snow dusting his neck and shoulders.
"What are you?" Bob gasped, recoiling at the weapon ready mutant's deformed silhouette. Right when Mike is about to disarm him with the chain of his nunchaku Lucas moves in with a miniature version of his dad's browning, his hands shaking so fiercely the bullet rattles in the barrel. Kid or not, fear is dangerous under any circumstance.
"Please, we don't want to fight you." Leonardo said, startling Bob further. He turns the gun on Leo's voice and Mike wants nothing more than to bash this guy's fingers into little pieces. But he can't. Luke's wobbly rifle is trained on him like nothing else—and even if he did dodge, the bullet would surely find it's way to Leo.
"How many are of you are there?" He squeaks, betraying his intimidatingly good looks.
"It's just us, dude." Mikey said. "Two. Me and him. That's one plus uno. Two of a kind. Birds of a feather, no flock whatsoever."
"I think he gets it." Leo says, then kicks the back of Mikey's heel. "Look, sir, we didn't mean to set off your trap. We were just...Uh-"
"-Bird watching!" Mike exclaims.
"Yes! Bird watching. You know us mutants just can't get enough of those crazy birds of lava."
"So you are mutants." Bob stares in awe. For brief moment in time his gun is forgotten, a distraction among more interesting things. But then Mike shifts and the rifle is instantly back into play. "Don't move!"
"Chill, chill!" Mikey quickly pockets the nunchucks and throws his hands up with an apologetic smile plastered to his face. "See, I'm unarmed. We're not messing around."
"I-I'm not afraid to sh-shoot." Lucas stutters and pokes Mikey's arm with the kiddie sights on his boom stick. Michelangelo isn't sure if he's putting on a brave front to make his hairy dad proud or if he's trying to intimidate the 'alien monster' that sleeps under his bed at night.
"Okay, yeah, got it the first time, dude. Just don't shoot your eye out."
"Get into the light." Bob yells. "I wanna see your faces."
"That's gonna be a little hard considering your stupid trap messed up my bro's leg."
"It's not a stupid trap!" The furry faced hunter drops his polished gun and leans into the shadows, his eyes searching the darkness for the rest of Mikey's face. To Michelangelo's dismay the close-quarters offers him a whiff of Bob's foul breath that is forming toxic green clouds around his heinous cakehole. "And it wouldn't of messed up his leg if you two psychos weren't screwing around with it in the first place. Now get. Into. The light."
Michelangelo was hesitant, but had no choice but to do as the gunmen commanded. With a sigh, he left the heavy shadows and stepped into the light of the full moon. His bright green skin reflected off the falling snow as it decorated his rounded scutes and ridges. Bob stepped back to give him more room to walk, his legs like spaghetti. For a moment he stood there, studying Mikey with an out-of-place smile that he found extremely creepy.
"I can't believe it." Bob whispered. "You are real."
"It's not that unbelievable." Mike said, shamefaced by how naked he was.
"What about the other one?" Bob nodded his head at the corner where he'd heard Leonardo speak.
"Looks the same as me. Well, not exactly like me, he's taller and wears blue, but we're both turtles."
"Turtles? Who woulda thunk." Bob marvels a bit longer before sparing his son a glance. "An alien race of turtles crash landing on earth."
"We're not aliens, we're mutants! They're not the same thing!"
"Then where else would you come from?"
"Not space! Have you ever picked up a comic book in your life?" Mike said, punctuating his words with karate chops. "Mutants are people or animals that have been mutated by green ooze."
"Can we not fight?" Leo shouts, snapping his fingers to get their attention.
"Well, how the hell am I supposed to know that!? It's not like I meet one everyday! All I know is there's pink, big-eyed freaks taking over my town and kidnapping my friends and my family, and then you loudmouths pop up the next day? Pretty alien if you ask me, and that does not fly in 'hampton." He leans further into the darkness until he and Mikey are nose to nose and eye to eye. "It does not fly!"
"Or you can not listen to me. Whatever." Leo huffs and folds his arms over his chest, shaking his head at the shameful behavior.
Michelangelo and furry face Bob snarl at each other, challenging the other to make a move with obnoxious headbutting and shoulder knocking as if they've grown horns and hooves. From the corner of his eye Mike sees Lucas step back towards the ribbons of rot wood adorning the far wall of the shed, shoulders slumping and knees shaking. The soft moonlight gives away his pale face and his sweat soaked collar, ripe for fainting.
Supplying Bob's steely glare with his own, Mike rescues a genuine bit of esteem for the bearded man. "Hey, man, I respect that. It's gotta tough losing your home like that."
"It is." Bob straightens out, snarling teeth and yellowed fangs pressed and veiled. "Lost my mom to those freaks just last week. She was picking up a slice of pizza on her way to work when it happened." He looked into the mite-infested support beams as if watching a vivid flashback in 1080p. "There was nothing left when they were through with her. They'd even taken the whole pizza parlor with them and everyone in it."
"Like, the whole thing?"
"'Like, the whole thing. But you wanna know what the worst part is?"
"No pizza delivery." Mikey shakes his head.
"Exactly. You get it." Bob jabs his fat thumb into Mikey's face and looks over at the section of the shed that his son escaped to. "See, even the mutant gets it."
"So, does that mean the whole town is gone?"
"No, they just sneak in real late and take whatever they want. Some of us are still around—the dumb ones anyway. The rest had enough common sense to hit the road after Jim's Shop N Wash vanished into thin air. And then there's Strahovski's laundrymat." Bob sighed.
"Huh. I wonder if they did that to the-OW!" Something sharp stabs the back of Michelangelo's heel, breaking skin and plunging into whatever laid beyond his foot's fleshy walls. Bones? Muscle? The greater mysteries.
Looking back Mike sees Leo peering up from the snow speckled floor, arms firmly crossed. The tense vibe alone is enough to go on. "Stop doing that." Mike whispers sharply.
Leonardo shakes his head, eyes shifting from Mikey to the burly, six-feet tall windigo behind him. Michelangelo throws up his hands and aggressively gestures towards the man's impressive beard, but Leo isn't having any of it.
Sighing, Mike faces Bob with a wry smile and the fingers of his right hand dancing over the knuckles of his other. "What I mean is we lost our home to the Kraang, too." He mumbled. "And our dad."
"Man...That's a rough deal." Said Bob. "I know how it feels. Lost my dad a few months back. Doc said it was cancer, but I think the old man just didn't have it in him to keep going anymore. Kept myself distracted with the invasion ever since."
"That's what me and bro are doing. But our dad didn't die, he's just lost. We'll find him. We're lying low for a little while, sure, but the second we get a our wind back we're gonna show the Kraang what happens when you take what's ours!"
"I like your attitude, but there's no way we're playing for the same team when you're all…"
"Not an alien, dude."
"Right."
"What are you waiting for, Dad?" Lucas shouted. Michelangelo peeked around Bob's wide frame to the trembling boy standing by the unhinged stable door, his baby face crooked with confusion. He had slung the small browning rifle back over his shoulder, clearly regarding the shed's mutant inhabitants a waste of his ammunition. "He's a mutant. We're supposed to kill the mutants, you said so. Not make friends with them!"
"Also right." Bob agreed, raising his t-bolt at Michelangelo.
"Wait! You don't know what you're doing!" Mikey pleaded, hands above his head. Leo shifted to his good side and a faint schlick of metal followed as he slid the hidden blade from his mud smudged kneepad without being noticed. Mike didn't want this, and he was sure that bob didn't want it either—not when he had a little boy to look after. The father could be swayed to their side, he proved that. If only he'd realize what he was doing. "You can't kill us just because of how we look! If we were mutant maniacs you guys would be dead already."
"You could be saying that so we don't shoot!" Lucas argued. "It's a trick! I know because...Because-"
"Because of what you see on TV?" Leo interjected, blowing his perfect cover into pieces. Lucas looked into the darkness and Leo's disembodied eyes looked back at him.
"Captain Ryan said that-"
"Captain Ryan isn't real." He stated lifelessly. "You're father is not a starfleet Captain, he does not travel the stars for other life, he is a hunter that takes life. He judges other species wrongly based on their appearance. And If he fires that gun he will be a murderer."
"You're wrong!" Luke cried. "My dad isn't the bad guy!"
"I am? You look at your dad and you tell me who the good guy is."
Lucas seemed reluctant to follow Leo's order, but soon his eyes could not resist the temptation. He looked, and judging by his wide hazel gaze, over pouring with conflicting emotion, he didn't like what he saw.
"So what is it, son?" Bob yelled over his shoulder. "Me or him?"
"We could all walk away from this alive." Leo said. "It doesn't have to be this way."
"Make the call, Luke. Am I taking the shot or am I?"
"It's his call?" Mikey whimpered. "How is it not my call? I don't want to die!"
"Shut up!" Luke cried, booted baby feet pacing in the snow. "I... I don't know. It's too much, I don't want to call the shots, Dad. I'm just a kid!"
"Me too! But I'm the one getting shot here!" Mikey yelled.
"You're a kid?" Luke and Bob crowed in unison.
"Uh, yes. This not the velvety soft skin of an old fart, dude." Mikey caressed his own cheek. "Aloe Vera."
"That's Ap's lotion." Leo murmured, once again kicking the back of Michelangelo's heel.
"It works for both our skin types, bro. Feisty, fearsome and freckled. Meowr."
"How old are you exactly?" Bob asks Mikey, lowering his rifle.
"Fifteenth and a half. Sixteen last september."
"Wouldn't you be sixteen, then?"
"If I wasn't fifteen, duh. Are you even listening?"
"Of course, how silly of me. So fifteen, huh? What is that like two-hundred or three-hundred in Alie-"
"I am not an Alien!"
"Okay, okay. I was just messing with you that time." Bob promptly swings the browning t-bolt over his shoulder and shoves his mitted fists into his coat pockets. "I'm not shooting any kid, alien, mutant or otherwise."
"You already hurt my brother with that trap, in case you forgot." Mikey gestures to the death machine in Bob's possession. "So techno, you already dido."
Bob giggled. "Dido."
Mikey gives the armed hunter a stern glare, his green paws gripping narrow hips.
"I'm sorry, geez. Is there any way I can make it up to and your...brother?"
"There is this one thing. But first," Michelangelo throws out his hand, green flesh and chocolate-colored freckles showing in the moonlight. "Name's Michelangelo, and this is my brother, Leonardo."
Bob pulls back, disgust written all over his curly beard. Then he shakes his head and steps forward by an inch. Hand in Mike's, he gives the scaly appendage a firm shake before letting go and stuffing his hand back into the safety of his coat pocket. Mike can't blame the guy for being careful, after all April wasn't thrilled to meet them and now they live together and another mutant-hating human, Casey. "Cliff."
"Nice to meetcha, Clifford. Now, about that thing."
A few minutes later Michelangelo, Leonardo, Cliff and Cliff's son, Lucas, are trudging through the fierce snow storm towards the secluded farmhouse oasis. Leonardo, obviously not as trusting as his younger brother, did not agree to be carried around by a man they had just met and often spent his free time hunting and killing animals for sport, therefore dismissing the idea that they'd travel together. He was also very against going to the farmhouse with these two, despite one being the father of the other, who couldn't have been more than six years-old. "Children are the worst at keeping secrets," He said. "I wouldn't trust anyone under the age of ten." Thankfully it's easy to win an argument when the one you are arguing with is losing consciousness by the second. When Leo had conked mid-sentence, he took it as approval and went through with his original plan.
The moment they left the shed it was hell frozen over. The snow piling on the earth was nearly as tall as Luke's four-foot stature; the wind nearly enough to knock him off his feet. But he fought well and remained upright. The rest had an easier time than him, but less clothes.
Michelangelo managed to convince Cliff to give Leo his fur coat after a long debate on whether mutants we're carriers of advanced alien cooties. In the same heated discussion Michelangelo had guilted him into carrying Leonardo on account of him being responsible for the injury, and that he should feel ashamed for wishing to inflict the same pain upon an innocent woodland creatures when their lives are already so hard. He, however, ventured forward with nothing other than the shell on his back and the katana in his belt.
The winter whirlwind was relentless, the cold biting and unforgiving. Mikey could feel his body going into a state of hibernation that both pushed him forward and slowed him down to a snail's pace. Though the crippling exhaustion was vastly preferable to Luke's laser-like glare drilling holes in the back of his head. He obviously wasn't all for consorting with the enemy he had heard so much about and was rightfully pissed off at the situation. Particularly at Michelangelo for banishing the senseless stereotypes about mutant-kind and not showing them the bloodthirsty world-conquering type that he must be deep down inside. Not to mention his thick-headed Dad for breaking so easily, when he had been the one spreading such falsities about aliens in the first place. The traitorous liar.
Michelangelo would throw the kid funny faces now and then, fingers twirling about his spotted head like a crazy person high on marijuana. But Lucas was not entertained in the slightest. In fact, Mikey was under the impression that his efforts were only losing him points rather than gaining them. The harder he worked on the spectacles—his eyes crossed and dancing about with reckless abandon—the hotter Luke's rage burned. He had all but given up on becoming his best buddy within' a matter of minutes, and soon they slipped into an uncomfortable silence. He had never encountered a cookie so hard to crack.
Cliff didn't seem to mind them too much, but he did have this way about him that Mikey found pretty unusual. He wasn't untrusting, irritated, or even rubbernecking the unconscious turtle mutant laying awkwardly in his manly arms. He looked...Happy. Like something unbearably heavy had been lifted from his chest, allowing him to breathe more comfortably. Mikey had kept a close eye on him.
After ending his merry jigs and suspicious sidelong glances, Michelangelo assumed the more serious role as guide. He led the shivering, gun-toting huntsman through the evergreen valley and the trees guarding the half-frozen river bed. They skipped across the stones to the other side of the stream, laughing when Luke's boot slipped off a rock and collided with the shallow water below, and continued towards the barn peeking over the treetops. The boiling rage brewing in Luke's tiny body cooled as he chuckled softly to himself.
Soon they came upon the O'neil family farmhouse. Her frosted windowpanes displaying a cozy home away from home, alive with an inviting orange glow and a thin tail of smoke easing out her slanted brick chimney. Cliff whistled and nodded in approval, clearly impressed by it all.
Michelangelo ran ahead and up the squeaky steps to the unlit porch. He then spun around on his heel to meet the hunters halfway, his arms blocking their path up.
"Before we go inside you have to know something." Said Mike. Cliff and Luke stopped dead in their tracks to listen to what he had to say. "There's others here. Mutants like me and him. They're our brothers too." They looked unsurprised at the news. Cliff yawned and scratched his beard. "There's also two humans here, and they're probably gonna be really mad to see two guys with guns in their house, you feel me?"
Cliff and Luke exchanged hesitant looks, then, after mulling it over through telepathy, they removed their guns and propped them against the wooden banister at the bottom of the stairway. Cliff gave Michelangelo a thumbs up, which Mike gratefully returned and ushered them towards the door. He placed his frostbitten three-fingered hand on the brass doorknob and turned.
Almost all at once a barrage of frantic yelling and desperate shouts for attention filled his ears. He cringed before he stepped inside and tip-toed into the empty foyer. He looked back to see Cliff and Luke doing the same, stepping only where he stepped and moving only when he moved. Mike was thankful that Leo seemed to be fast asleep and unfazed by all the screaming, or else he'd be an utter state of panic right now.
At first Mikey was afraid he and Leo were in serious trouble for being gone for so long. Taking into consideration that Raph's voice was among one of the loudest in the house, he quickly came to the conclusion that Raph was upset about losing turtle hunt and was looking for something fragile to break when he roused April and Casey from their sleep. Mikey the goofball and the severely crippled Leonardo had beaten him at a game he often bragged being the best at playing. It would be a sore subject, for sure. But as Michelangelo rounded the corner he was met not by angry friends, but the worried faces of family.
They were all huddled near the fireplace. Casey was in the process of nudging the crackling firewood with his golf club, while Donnie played marriage counselor to a half-baked spud and dusty light bulb. Raph and April—whom made a miraculous recovery—were standing, shaking on their winter coats and strapping tennis rackets to their feet. They froze when they saw Michelangelo standing under the archway. The yells silenced.
"Mikey!" They shouted in unison. Raph rushed forward and grabbed Michelangelo by the shoulders, taking in his brother's snow coated body as if he were a stress induced hallucination. Something glimmers in the corner of his eye that can't possibly be an unshed tear of relief, but a trick of the light. "Where's Leonardo?"
"I've got 'im." Said Cliff, stepping out from behind the dividing wall. He lifts the semi-conscious mutant turtle into full view of his worried family members, eyes drifting down towards the thoroughly bandaged leg. The damp ace is covered in dark patches of blood and dripping melted snow all over the rubber placemats checkering the foyer floor. The fur lined coat is all that stands between him and a pile of snow and ice. April gasps and runs forward, her outstretched fingers reaching Leo before the rest of her does. The others are not as quick to act.
"Who the hell is this guy?" Casey thrusts his aluminum golf club at the bearded stranger, hands blindly searching the top of his head for a spray-painted hockey mask that isn't there.
"He's my friend, Cliff." Said Michelangelo, nodding towards the entryway. The miniature version of the bear faced hunter then steps in beside them. Looking abnormally small next to Cliff, Lucas tries his absolute best to look fearsome and brave, but comes off as a shy little kid two years too young to be a hunter. "And that's Lucas, Cliff's son."
Donatello, Raphael and Casey looked on with concern, but quickly shook off the surprise as something Mikey was bound to do sooner or later, and that they should be grateful that it had been sooner. Cliff nodded, and the others quickly dropped what they were doing and gathered around Leonardo's snoozing form.
Cliff did not so much as flinch when the mutants charged him, nor did he ogle the three-pronged steel strapped to Raphael's hips. He had instead smiled a smile that warmed as they drew near and never wavered. Lucas was not as brave when it came to meeting mutants, and had hid his face in his Dad's baggy pant leg.
Donatello was upon them, studying the damage with his undeveloped x-ray vision. His three-fingered hand rested against his older brother's pale forehead with such gentleness Mike had never seen before, and look of a sadness he knew too well.
"How did this happen?" Donatello asked.
"Bear trap." Cliff replied. "One of my own, actually. Caught the guy by surprise, I guess."
He was quiet, taking it in a moment longer. "April, would you mind unpacking the first aid kit?" Donatello asked. "First shelf in the bathroom cabinet."
April looked reluctant to leave Leo's side so soon, but did as she was told and bolted up the stairs to the washroom, kicking off the tennis rackets as she went. With that, Donatello turned around to Casey and Raphael. "Raph, go with April and run the bath. Do not use hot water, same goes for cold. Warm will do just fine."
"Got it." Said Raph, and then he was off, monstrous feet hammering up the wobbly stairs April had just ascended, only he had not removed the sports gear from his dogs.
"And Casey," Case stands straight as a board at the mention of his name, fists clenched and a determined look in his eyes. "Go into the attic and get some of the old quilts from the dresser."
"Wait, why do I-"
"Better yet, just get all the blankets. Coats would be great too. And some clean bedsheets."
"But the attic is creepsville, D." Casey said, his posture deflating. " I went in there last time and I saw poop in there. Rat poop"
"Yeah, so?"
"So? Rat poop comes from rats, genius. And rats carry disease, and disease kills the jones!"
"Cold will kill the turtle if you don't hurry up." Don taps his foot against the floor impatiently. With a drawn out groan, Casey trudges up the stairs and down the hall to the hideaway in the ceiling.
"Okay, Mikey, you get the easiest job." Don said. "All you have to do is-"
"Yeah?"
"-sit next to the fire and warm up while the rest of us take care of Leo. You get a free pass on this one, buddy."
Michelangelo deadpans. "I'm not just gonna sit around, bro. Is there something important I could do?"
"What do you mean?" Don places a hand on Mike's shoulder. "You're finished. You already got Leo here safe and sound. It's smooth waters from here."
"Then why can't I help out?"
"Look," Don said, pressing his disfigured hands into Michelangelo's icy shell and promptly forcing his little brother towards the warmth of the fireplace. "I would be all for letting Nurse Mikey on the scene, but we'll have enough hands in there as it is. I think it would be best if you stayed down here and focused on getting warmed up." Don plants his hands on Mike's shoulders and forces him to sit in the winged armchair by the fire. He seemed absolutely shocked that Don would have the gall to deny him his right to help Leonardo after everything he's been through, but he can't exactly refuse. Allowing it just this once, Mike frees Leo's Katana from his belt and rests them against the coffee table, along with his nunchucks.
"I'll send Casey down with some blankets, so don't leave until he does or you'll confuse him." Donnie goes through a quick examination. He checks Mikey's temperature with the back of his hand, asked him if his heart rate was slower than usual, or if he had any trouble breathing and then checked his eyes like a doctor would do. He patted Mikey on the shell reassuringly before moving on without another word.
"Now Cliff, right?" Don said on his way to the stairs. "You're going upstairs with me, but first things first." Don grabs the end of his six-foot bo-staff with one hand and pokes Cliff's chest with the other. " I don't know who you are or where you came from, but you are not my friend. This is our house, and If you so much as think about pulling anything on us you'll have five ninjas on your tail in less than five seconds. You can't overpower us, you do not outnumber us and you will fail. Hear me?"
Cliff laughs. "Uh oh, bad cop's up in my grill."
"Do you hear me?"
"Yeah, man, I hear you."
"Good. Let's go." Don said, then charged towards the stairs with an irritated look on his face and Cliff tailing after him like giggly teenage girl—Leo still sound asleep in his meaty paws.
Then there were two.
Michelangelo looked back to see that Luke had not gone after his father. In fact he still remained at the entryway, pretending that the mundane household objects strewn about the living room had caught his eye and took interest in minor details he couldn't actually care about. Mikey watched him, knowing full well that Luke would get uncomfortable, but the kid was very good at refusing eye contact and acting like he didn't notice he was being watched.
After getting stiff from rubbernecking the grandfather clock, Luke was faced with deciding how he should present himself. He Switched between standing in place like a weirdo and studying vintage architecture, or leaning on the doorframe and looking like an ungrateful twat plotting his next move. He was indecisive, opposed to getting comfortable after overhearing such a dastardly threat against his father, but at the same time not against someone offering him a place to sit. Mikey had laughed, not because he knew how it felt, but that he had seen it before with his brothers. Donnie never did get used to April's apartment.
"Just hurry up and sit down, dude." Mikey said, pointing at the armchair across from his. "You won't get ninja'd for putting your butt on the furniture."
For a moment, Luke stared at Michelangelo, his baby face hard to read but his eyes perfectly capable of conveying his doubt. Eventually he complied, but resisted trotting over lest Mikey think he was happy about getting a seat by the fire. He slouched and dragged his booted feet across the room to the armchair, then rested his weary bones on the edge of the cushion and warmed his hands by the fire. Luke had upgraded from ogling clock faces to gazing into fireplaces. He watched the two blackened logs split as the controlled inferno cackled at their expense; it's flickering red tongues licking the chimney shoot.
Michelangelo looked on with bewilderment like Luke was an exhibit at Coney Island. Then It struck him that, unlike the kids he would see vandalising and disturbing the peace, Lucas was a contemplative countryside boy. What an honor, he thought; to meet a subject more rare than a unicorn.
"We're not the bad kind." Michelangelo said. Luke looked up from the fire and stared at Mikey like he'd grown a second head. "I'm not gonna say we aren't all bad, because a lot of us choose not to be good."
Luke shifted in his seat and slumped into the cushions. Right when looked about to say something profound, he shut his fishy gape and looked back into the fireplace, settling into the crushing silence that dominated the lounge.
Michelangelo, however, did not. "I knew this one dude, real cool guy, kind of my best friend. He started off as an alligator the same way me and my bros started as turtles." Mikey paused to look at his hands, suddenly feeling drowsy. "The kraang took him away to their dimension, experimented on him, turned him into a mutant. He escaped, but the people here treated him like a monster even though he was this totally rad dude fighting the kraang all the time—for them. They didn't know because they kept judging him for what he looked like on the outside and not what he was on the inside."
He looked up to see Luke still gazing into the flames with a thoughtful look in his eyes. Mikey felt he lost him completely to the more fascinating chimney and it's angry blaze and insulting stance on economy. But that didn't stop him.
"My point is that maybe he looked like a monster to some people, he was someone's best friend—my best friend. And I think that says a lot."
He didn't wait around for what Luke would say or how he would react, knowing the kid would most likely spare a meaningless gesture to ensure he had been heard, when all Mikey wanted was for him to think about what he had shared in words. Hopefully he would understand what it meant. And if he didn't maybe he would someday, when it really mattered.
As the silence grew impossibly loud and Luke nodded to no one, Michelangelo got up from his chair and walked into the dingy foyer. The sudden drowsiness had evolved into something much more powerful, and it took every ounce of energy not to get down on his hands and knees and crawl his way to bed. But the image of Leo's bloody leg and Donnie's sad expression had kept him on his mission.
When his enormous feet hit the first step he couldn't help but notice just how noisy the squeaky platforms were, and how they seemed to get worse as he advanced. They're talkative nature was denying him his ninja stealth. But he had moved on undeterred and frankly too tired to care if he was caught. There was no punishment his brothers could bestow upon him that was worse than ignorance.
At the top of the staircase and down the hall, a willowy light slipped under the slender bathroom door. It had been shut, for what he reason he didn't know, but he was soon going to find out as he neared the washroom with steps as light as Donatello's dreams. His fingers stretched for the knob, his heart leapt for the answers beyond it. He opened the door for a peek.
Inside the bathroom was crowded with family. Donnie was crouched by Leonardo who laid motionless across the tile floor, his injured leg flat while the other had been bent at the knee so as to free up what little space they had. April was doing a juggling act with a worn yellow sponge and Don's medical supplies that had been arranged on a spotted hand towel. Raphael stood in the corner, his troubled visage unusually vacant as he watched.
There was blood everywhere. It pooled and stained the rows of creamy ceramic squares and ran through the grout like a river of blood poured down the valley shadows. It got far more gory as April rushed to clean the deep lacerations before Donnie's charred sewing needle came to finish the job.
Unlike in the shed, Leo panted and cried out in pain and fought against them relentlessly. They had restrained his flailing arms and legs with their own hands and feet the best they could, but mistakes had been made. The bruise forming around April's left eye was a brutal reminder of what would happen if they failed to keep him under control.
Michelangelo dared to go forward, opening the door a smidgen further for a grand view of the surgery, when Raphael spoke. "Why does this keep happening Donnie?"
"I don't know." He said.
"We were suppose to be watching him. This was his first day out since he woke up, he shouldn't have to be goin' through this again."
"I know."
Feeling the familiar guilt rip at his innermost core, Mike pushed the door further, but was met with an immovable object. He craned his neck and focused his eyes on the door stop that was Clifford, the big red human. He peered down at Mike with sad, teary eyes and his happy-go-lucky smile nowhere to be found. "I should have been watching him." Raph confessed. "Shell, April could have and she was sick. Casey could learn to lift a finger. Anyone but-"
"Don't. I know what you're going to say so just...Don't." Don interrupted.
"You know I'm right."
Mikey knew what was about to be said, and he didn't like it. He wanted to leave. He wanted now more than anything to go to bed and never wake up again. But he couldn't look away. The pit in his stomach had weighed him to the spot like a concrete slipper, forcing him to wait it out to the bitter end.
"Mikey shouldn't be allowed to watch Leo anymore."
"Raph!"
"Don't give me that. This probably happened all because Mikey was goofing off or doing something stupid instead of looking after Leo. Now we got hunters out the asshole, and probably more they came from." He groaned. "Ever since April gave him that camera it's all he does is take pictures of his chickens or his food like some hippie blogger."
"You don't know if it happened that way." Don said, his voice betraying his true feelings on the matter.
"I would bet on it."
That was it, that was all Mikey could take. He was right—All of it was right. They didn't misunderstand him, they knew him too well if anything. They knew he was a mess. Thankfully Cliff picked up the signal and gave his buddy a little wave before closing the door on his face, cutting off Raph's aggressive ranting. That hollow exhausted feeling that had spread from his fingers to his head, was now filled with frustrated thoughts that spiraled out of hand. He cursed, low and under his breath, then stepped away from the door.
Casey was making his way down the hallway with quilts and comforters from present to A.D. in his stringy arms. He smiled at Michelangelo as he passed by, an outstretched arm forcing the biggest orange quilt into his hands. "Found one that matched your mask."
"Thanks…" Michelangelo whispered.
"No problemo." Casey saluted, then entered the bathroom with a victorious whoop whoop and was rewarded with a few half-hearted hellos.
Mikey buried his face in the dusty, moth eaten duvet and heaved a heavy hearted sigh into the peeking feather-fill. His feet then shuffled towards the stairs and carried him into the rubber coated farmhouse foyer and across the lounge to where Luke sat watching nothing in particular. The silence greeted him as if he had never left.
"Hey." He said to Luke, waking the boy from his reverie. "Have you ever seen a ice cream kitty before?"